


no place in heaven

by sonnycreasy



Series: tmi ‘verse [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe: The Mortal Instruments, Introspection, M/M, Sad with a Hopeful Ending?, Vampire!Sonny, Warlock!Rafael, blatent content rip-off, like malec if alec went through simon’s experience, other characters appear too but not enough to warrant tagging them, see if I care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-09 06:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnycreasy/pseuds/sonnycreasy
Summary: Rafael slipped his hand into Dominick’s, clasping them together, willing him to understand that Rafael was here for him; to listen, to comfort, to be whatever he needed. The Warlock tried to ignore how cold the hand in his was, how the warmth he had come to associate with the man next to him had been seeped away, never to return.–––––also known as: the vague  'the mortal instruments' au that literally nobody asked for





	no place in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> hey so for this i have borrowed cassandra clare’s world and, quite frankly, rather important parts of her plot. i hope she forgives me. basically if it seems familiar then i nicked it. merci pls enjoy nonetheless
> 
> this started as a look into religion from the perspective of downworlders but it kinda went its own route so oops?

Rafael stood at the entrance to the graveyard, watching, waiting. He didn’t make a habit of visiting places like this – places that death clung to and wrapped its grubby little hands around and said ‘These people - _they’re mine now_.’ Death was greedy and Rafael did not enjoy the reminder.

Rafael also did not enjoy the reminder that, while death may be greedy, it would never be hungry enough to take him. Nor would it feast upon the man he had come here for.

The man in question – one Dominick Carisi, Jr. – was hovering somberly by a plot in the far corner of the cemetery, staring at a fixed point on the ground as if willing grass to sprout. He looked as terrible as he had when Rafael had seen him last, and the Warlock would not be surprised if he was told that Dominick had not eaten since his rising. It wasn’t a far-fetched theory – in fact, had he been a gambling man, Rafael would have been willing to put a _lot_ of money on that fact. It was something he’d seen time and time again: young, kind souls becoming victim to the Night Children by nature of them being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a tale as old as time, but it did not hurt any less.

He approached Dominick quietly, as if hesitant to disturb the uneasy peace that the setting afforded them. As he came closer, he could see what the distance had not allowed him to, untamed hair, shaking hands, and the same attire that had been donned three days ago when he had clawed his way out of the ground, back into the land of the (not quite) living.

He looked empty, and suddenly Rafael wanted to envelope this man — _his_ _lover_ , his brain supplied traitorously — in his arms and never let him go. He chose to ignore this unsettling burst of emotions – he and Dominick were new, tentative, and this was hardly the time to bring it up. Not when the blonde’s life as he had known it had just been (literally) ended.

As if sensing Rafael’s uncertainty, Dominick broke the silence. “This is our family plot,” he said, his words barely above a whisper. Rafael’s eyes followed Dominick’s gaze to the empty expanse of land in front of them. “It’s morbid, I know, but I can’t stop picturing this place filling up – Ma, Gina, Theresa, Be—” his voice caught and he shrugged his shoulders, taking a breath out of habit rather than necessity. “Bella.” A hollow laugh escaped his lips, “G—” he choked on the word as it tried to leave his throat, and Rafael felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the hurt on the young man’s face, the blood pooling at the corner of his eyes threatening to spill over.

“I can’t _fucking_ say it,” Dominick kicked the ground as he said the words, seemingly directing his frustrations at the patch of moss beneath his feet.

Rafael slipped his hand into Dominick’s, clasping them together, willing him to _understand_ that Rafael was here for him; to listen, to comfort, to be whatever he needed. The Warlock tried to ignore how cold the hand in his was, how the warmth he had come to associate with the man next to him had been seeped away, never to return. It was hard to reconcile this version of Dominick with the version he had known and witnessed not three days prior, the flush to his dimple-bearing cheeks has almost always been present in Rafael’s company, the heat that radiated from him as their bodies huddled together on Rafael’s couch had been subject to much complaining on his part. A sense of guilt overcame him for thinking if this, as if this wasn’t exactly what Dominick would also be thinking about right now. _Dios_ , he had to get out of his head.

“I—” he began, uncertain of where he was going to take this but feeling the overwhelming need to _say something._

“Don’t” Dominick cut him off with a bluntness he had never heard from those lips before. It unnerved Rafael more than he would care to admit. The taller man seemed to have surprised himself because he clicked his tongue and started again. “I just–I need time. Quiet. To think.” He shrugged forlornly. “It’s a lot.”

Hesitantly, Rafael went to draw his hand back, intending to leave Dominick alone to grieve for his own life. There would be plenty time later for him to show that it–immortality–wasn’t all bad (it almost certainly was, but that seemed counterproductive to point out until maybe a century down the line).

But the figure next to him simply tightened his grip. “Stay. Please. Rafael.” He paused as a thought occurred to him. “If ever there was a time I needed healing.”

_Raphael. God’s healer._

It would be cruel of Rafael to point out that this might be the only ailment he could not heal. But then, he was far from an angel. _Mami_ had hoped too much for him, naming him after one of her precious angels as if that could save his soul for her God. _Rafael_ and _mi angel_ were quickly swapped for cries of _¡satanas!_ and rushed prayers when his pupils contracted to slits and his tongue split in half at the age of seventeen. He had fled and, ever the good Catholic child, prayed. Prayed for forgiveness for whatever unholy act he had committed for this curse to have been placed upon him.

Now he knew better than to wish this away. He’d had centuries to accept himself, accept the creature was his father and forgive his mother. He’d had centuries to accept his fate, watching friends and loved ones wither away as his reflection never aged a day over thirty.

Dominick had had no such luxury. He had been living with his new reality for all of three days. In time, he would make peace with the nature of his being, but for now he was still processing what had happened to him, let alone what that meant for his future.

The irony of names was never lost to him. Here was he, Rafael, “God has healed”, next to Dominick, “belonging to God”, yet neither of them would be touched by His light. There was a technicality that meant through the eyes of the angels, Downworlders still had human souls, but what good did that do when they had demon blood coursing through their veins?

“Y’know, I can’t bring myself to go in the front door. Ma’s got this,” Dominick waved his free hand in a gesture that Rafael assumed indicated size, “Cross. And it hangs there and it, I dunno, it feels like it’s taunting me. And how do I explain that, yeah, I’m fine but I can’t go out in sunlight and _oh by the way Sunday Mass is a no-go_.” His voice cracked and Rafael decided to steer the conversation away from religion. He wasn’t sure he was prepared for that kind of conversation at this moment in time, he certainly wasn’t the best-equipped to .

“Where have you been staying? I’m assuming you haven’t just been wandering the streets for days.” He had intended to phrase it like a joke, but Rafael’s concern seeped through and it became a question. Surely he hadn’t.

“Nah, Mike’s been lettin’ me crash at his, despite–this is a direct quote by the way–‘despite the smell’,” the first hint of a smile that Rafael has seen in days twitched at the corner of Dominick’s mouth. “I don’t know what he’s on about. There’s _no way_ I smell as bad as him. Place reeks of dog.”

“You know you’re always welcome at my apartment. The only smell you’ll have to worry about is Bart, and I promise she doesn’t smell like other cats.” Rafael didn’t want to push, but he also knew that Sonny needed familiarity and routine to ground him, perhaps now more than ever. There was no doubt in his mind that he was better-equipped to provide those things than Mike, a man who was thirty years old and still in a _band_ , of all things.

Dominick started to shake his head but Rafael had made up his mind. “Dom— _Sonny_ ,” the nickname felt strange on his tongue, “I insist.” He brought their clasped hands to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Dominick’s cold hand. “Let me do this for you.” The taller man seemed to sag under the gaze of his green eyes.

Rafael squeezed his hand once more and wordlessly, almost thoughtlessly after years of practice, brought them to his apartment.

–––––––––––

The swarm of colours and heat that flooded the senses as Rafael’s home appeared around them was a stark contrast to the dark and morose atmosphere of the Staten Island Cemetery. If anything, it made Dominick look even worse, the light accentuating his pallor and exposing the dirt stains on his jeans and flannel. Rafael untangled their fingers and slipped through to his bedroom, intent on finding a clean change of clothes; clothes free of dirt stains that only served to remind them both of the younger man’s death.

It had been a horrible affair that Rafael had been trying his best to forget. He hadn’t been there — had been informed of the night’s transgressions over the phone by a distraught Olivia. She hadn’t known him long, but Olivia still felt responsible for the death of this kid that had been under her watch. He was a mundane, it _was_ her duty to protect them. This was what she had said to him between sobs and in that moment he had understood what had happened and instantly felt something inside him wither.

No one had known of their ‘relationship’, as Dominick called it. Rafael was indignant that they shouldn’t name it, that it was just _fun_ and nothing more. Countless cases of heartbreak and loss had taught Rafael not to pursue long-term relationships with mortals. But the optimistic kid had wormed his way into Rafael’s old, bitter heart with soft kisses and nights on the couch watching _Don’t Tell the Bride_ reruns and, really, just by being Dominick Carisi.

But no one had known about them, so Olivia’s phone call had simply been her seeking comfort from a friend, seeking for someone to tell her that _it wasn’t her fault_ and _it’s not her responsibility to save everyone_. She wasn’t to know that her every word had been like knives twisting into his heart.

When he had arrived at the cemetery – the nearest Catholic one to the Institute – the scene that had greeted him was this: the young Rollins girl on her knees, sobbing uncontrollably while being held by her stepfather; Rita Calhoun, spade in hand, eyes never wavering from the filled in grave; Michael Dodds standing with a bag of blood packs at his feet, unsure of what to do with himself; Olivia sat, slumped on the ground guilt radiating off her.

He had felt like an intruder standing there, even though Rita was perhaps the true outsider. This was a family, broken by the loss of one of their own, waiting to witness something perhaps more tragic than death – the rising of a mundane as a Child of the Night. He had wondered if they knew exactly what was going to happen, wondered how indepthly Rita had briefed them. He had doubted they were prepared for what they were going to witness. He had known that he wasn’t.

It had been as awful as Rafael had anticipated. Dominick’s pale, lifeless skin, standing out clearly as he clawed his way out of the ground. His eyes bloodshot and devoid of human emotion, looking around frantically in search of food. Rita had gestured for Mike to toss the blood packs over and Mike had complied, chucking the bag over to Dominick’s feet, too stunned by the horrifying sight of his friend to do much else. That had spurred the vampire into action, he had started tearing at the packs with his teeth, draining the blood from them frantically and without grace.

Rafael was still haunted by the sight of Dominick “Call Me Sonny” Carisi, a man who, in all of his twenty-five years, had never so much as hurt a fly looking up at him with blood dripping from his teeth. He had known that this would pass, that the light would return to Dominick’s eyes after he had completed the transformation but he had also known that Staten Island kid would hate his existence as soon as he processed what had happened. In that moment he had resented Amanda for being unable to let her best friend go and Rita for encouraging and enabling the rising.

Rafael pulled himself out of his thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on the past. He quickly found a Sonny-sized pair of joggers and a top that had been left at his apartment after one of Dominick’s frequent sleepovers and carried them through to where he had left his boyfriend.

Dominick was sitting exactly where he left him, although he had relaxed against the back of the couch and Bart was sat purposefully on his lap in her own method of providing comfort.

Rafael made his presence known, so as not to startle the blonde man, before speaking (an old habit he quickly realised was futile – heightened senses was a perk of vampirism after all).

“Hey,” he started softly as he maneuvered around the couch until he was perched on the arm next to Dominick. “I got you some clean clothes, and I’ve,” he clicked his fingers, “messed with the water temperature so it’s not too uncomfortable for you, if you want to shower.”

Sonny nodded appreciatively and stood up, lifting Bart off of him before doing so. “Yeah I should, I should do that.” He took the bundle of clothes from Rafael’s hands and started toward the bathroom. Before he had gotten more than two steps away, he stopped and turned back round. He bent down and pressed a light kiss to Rafael’s cheek and whispered, “Thank you,” before heading into the bathroom and closing the door.

Rafael, for all his 300 years of wisdom, was dumbfounded. He raised his hand to where Dominick’s lips had grazed and smiled faintly. As he listened to the sounds of waterfall from the bathroom he thought this: Dominick wasn’t okay – Dominick _wouldn’t_ be okay for a while; but he would be there for him, would offer his counsel and support – _and love_ – and maybe, just maybe, he’d understand. That immortality may _suck_ but to love someone with the promise of eternity was divine.

**Author's Note:**

> there are a lot of things i’m unhappy about with this. I dont like how i ended it. but im a maths major guys words are Freaking Hard. 
> 
> kudos nd comments very appreciated! would u like to see more from this universe? warlock rafael is Really fun i lowkey have a Whole Thing planned for that dude
> 
> as usual my twitter is @sonycreasy <3


End file.
